


hey-la, dey-la

by alongthewatchtower



Series: the right to bleed [2]
Category: Smallville, Supergirl (TV 2015), Superman - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:02:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewatchtower/pseuds/alongthewatchtower
Summary: “This is absolutely the last time I step foot in this fucking city,” he says, spitting blood on the floor of the elevator. Well, the elevator floor and Tall Goon #1’s boot. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he adds politely, “I think I got a bit of my innocent-and-definitely-illegally-detained-by-jackbooted-thugs blood on your shoe, there."





	

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not that Stiles _dislikes_  National City, per se. It’s just that as far as experiences go, his visits to National City usually kind of suck.

 

But this time, Stiles has a plan. He arrives on the four-fifty train, walks the quite reasonable distance to Clark’s hotel (and thank fuck his hot alien boyfriend isn't staying with his bubbly cousin, because Stiles cannot handle that kind of relentless optimism before coffee), strolls right past the front desk as if he’s a guest, and makes his way to the sixth floor. He pauses for a moment at Clark’s door, fishes in his bag for his magnetic cardkey (a Danny special), and smiles in satisfaction as the little light blinks green and the door unlocks.

 

Stiles snoops around the hotel room (because he’s insatiably curious, okay?), with a snort at the contrast Clark’s boring plaid boxers and the skintight briefs he wears under his SuperSuit (that tuck little-Clark down so he won’t scare the kiddies and little old ladies and good citizens in general). He steals a Coke from the minibar and is investigating the Chinese leftovers in the fridge when the door crashes inward.

 

 

Stiles whirls, throws the Chinese food at the first figure through the door, but he’s wearing a riot helmet with shield, fully decked out in black, SWAT-esque body armour, and he’s on Stiles in an instant, swinging the butt of a gun at Stiles’ temple. He’s fast enough that it only glances off the side of his face as he turns, hitting close enough to his eye socket to daze him momentarily, but Stiles has one hand on his taser as he kicks the guy in the nuts (an oldie but a goodie), realising just how outnumbered he is as another black-suited figure grabs his arm (can’t use his taser now, it’d get him too), spinning him around and shoving him head first into the wall. Stiles throws up his one free hand, but it’s too late, and his poor face meets the plaster with a familiar crack of his nose. There’s a better grip on him now, and he struggles and yells, but he’s just manhandled back around, blood streaming down his face as he’s frogmarched to the door, one of the assholes securing plastic riot cuffs on his wrists.  _Shit._  Whoever these goons are, they’ve come loaded for bear, six assault rifles aimed squarely at him, two guys manhandling him, and throughout the entire thing, none of them said a word. No _you’re under arrest_ , no _come with us, Superman’s boyfriend_ , not even a cursory _down on the ground!_

 

Stiles huffs.

 

“This is absolutely the last time I step foot in this fucking city,” he says, spitting blood on the floor of the elevator. Well, and Tall Goon #1’s boot. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he adds politely, “I think I got a bit of my innocent-and-definitely-illegally-detained-by-jackbooted-thugs blood on your shoe, there."

 

 

The grip on one of his arms tightens, but nobody responds.

 

“Ah, the strong and silent type,” Stiles remarks. “Me, I like to chat to my beaten prisoners.” If he keeps talking, maybe he can ignore the throbbing of his face, the sharp pain where he’s definitely broken his nose. He has a busted lip, too, swelling as he talks, and there’s a bump forming at his hairline.

 

 

 

“So, is it too early to ask what this is all about?”

 

Stiles has been bolted into a rail attached to the inside of the nondescript black van, behind him. It means his arms take the strain of his movement when he sways with the van’s sharp turns, so there’s some more bruises he’s working on.

 

 

“Gang war?” He asks, looking between the blank faces of the men and woman opposite his bench. "Science experiment? Recruitment drive? You are a shady government organisation, right?"

 

Directly opposite him, a momentary look of exasperation crosses Short Goon’s face.

 

“I knew it!” Stiles crows. “So where’s headquarters, shady men in black? Sorry, men and one woman in black. Sad to see shady hit squads operating illegally aren’t more fond of gender parity."

 

The ride to shady HQ is fairly short, and Stiles is hauled out into a basement, into an elevator, where they go down, emerging onto a floor that’s done up in government-surplus industrial - grey, grey and more grey. He’s deposited in an interrogation room, complete with mirror and all. He’s photographed, fingerprinted, searched for weapons, and is held down for a professional blood draw - 

 

“You could’ve just scraped it off my face, you know,” he says when he’s shackled back into the chair, twitching his nose where the dried blood is starting to itch and immediately regretting it as the small movement feels like someone stabbing him in the face. There’s a small possibility he has the whole ruggedly-handsome-just-been-in-a-fight thing going on, like Kirk in the new Star Trek reboot, but he doubts it. He eyes the woman in a very nice black pantsuit that’s sitting opposite him.

 

“So,” the woman says, voice gentle. Yeah, she’s definitely the good cop in this scenario. “Why _are_ you here, Mr…?"

 

The woman waits. Too bad for her, he knows this game. Stiles was once possessed by a thousand-year-old fox demon. He can do patient. 

 

So, fun fact: Stiles has never been fingerprinted. Not officially, anyway. His Dad has an old fashioned, inked ten-card in his safe back home, along with a once-favourite hoodie in a sealed bag, and some hair with skin tags attached. (It’s Beacon Hills, the Stilinski men are pragmatists.) But his prints aren’t in any system, and he wasn’t carrying any ID because sometimes he just doesn’t - anytime he thinks (in advance) he might be seen associating with Superman, he wears his unremarkable-amulet, the one that makes him a forgettable face in a crowd of forgettable faces, and carries the wallet with cash and a prepaid debit card but nothing with his name on inside. When they run facial rec, it’ll take them time to get an ID.

 

 

“We’ll have your name soon,” the woman tells him, confident, still aiming for gentle. “But if you don’t help yourself now, by telling me who you are and what you were doing in that hotel, I can’t help you."

 

Questions are as revealing as their answers.

 

“What is your name?"

 

Ask the wrong one, and you’ve just given your opponent everything they need to know.

 

“Why did you break into that hotel room?"

 

They don’t know _anything_.

 

 

“Were you trying to spy on -"

 

 

She cuts herself off, and Stiles lets his amusement show on his face. After a few more rounds of questions but no answers, the woman stands.

 

“You’re in very serious trouble,” she says. “I’ll leave you to think your options over."

 

When she leaves, she shuts the door behind her, but Stiles doesn’t hear a lock.

 

He can work with that.

 

There’s only one visible camera and mic in this room, and he’s looking at it head on. That means his movements are hidden when he pulls the wire out of the cuff on his favourite plaid shirt. He’s wearing his own clothes, and only had to suffer through a perfunctory pat down. Amateurs. 

 

Their sloppiness means that as soon as Stiles is out of the cuffs, he ignores his cramping shoulders and scrabbles for the stone in his shoe.

 

There’s a sound on the other side of the mirror, and the door opens again, soundless on its hinges, heavy and counterweighted, lined with metal. 

 

  
_Lead shielding. Glowing green crystals._  Yeah, Stiles is thinks this might be Kara’s DEO. Shame, y’know, that they might be evil and all that. She might lose her bounce for at least a minute.

 

Stiles crushes the porous rock in his hand, inhaling deeply, and brings his palm and the little pile of powder up to his face. He exhales - 

 

\- and _believes._

 

He pictures the sleepytime powder working its way through the entire floor, carried along by a very efficient HVAC system. He pictures it spreading throughout the whole shady HQ complex, under doors and through vents, reaching everyone in the building.

 

 

The jackboot coming through the door falls over, unconscious. Stiles resists the urge to kick the man while he’s down, and instead strips him of his Glock, his baton, and his taser. They are very well equipped, these goons. 

 

Stiles is very aware that he’s probably being watched. He ignores the elevator entirely and searches the services closet he knows will be nearby - and there it is, a nondescript door with a _Danger, Electrical Current_  sign. Stiles is no kitsune. But he was once nogitsune, and just because the demon left, doesn’t mean everything did. So when he opens a conduit box and gently, calmly, wraps his hand around the biggest cable he can find -

 

The conduit box crackles, whines, and sparks at him.

 

The lights go out. 

 

Stiles steps back out into the hall, where after a second the emergency power kicks in and everything is bathed in eerie red light. He knows his time is limited, so he moves quickly up the stairwell, Glock in hand. He doesn’t really want to shoot anyone, but hey. He’s been detained by persons unknown, in a violent manner. He’s not above fighting his way out of here, and he steps through a doorframe with more glowing green stones embedded, letting the door marked ‘Stairs’ swing shut behind him, cautious of the way the exit is clearly marked. Signs point to black ops site conforming to government regulations, or an elaborate trap designed to test him. Stiles hopes for Option A.

 

 

More bodies in the stairwell, men unconscious but still breathing - they lose the jackbooted thug look the higher he rises, and by the time the big painted numbers on the stairwell wall reach _G_ , they’ve given way to not-so-cheap suits and shiny shoes. The further away he gets from the source of the sleepytime, the less effective the dispersal, and the assholes took his watch, but he’s been counting seconds in his head, and knows his window of opportunity is shrinking. Stiles ignores the Ground Floor door, heading up to Level 1 instead - less secure than a main entrance, a survivable jump if he can make it out a window.

 

His head is pounding, reminding him he has a broken nose, and his entire face feels swollen. Raccoon!Stiles isn't a look he carries well. He sees no evidence of kryptonite in the doorframe of the door to Level 1, and opens it cautiously to see a tacky bullpen full of passed-out people slumped over desks. Boring governmental flunkies, check.

 

No time like the present, he thinks and opens his mouth to call down the wrath of god upon the shady government jackboots.

 

“Superman!” He shouts, knowing Clark will hear him, his voice coming out high and panicked. “Help! I’ve been kidnapped by shady government jackboots!” If there’s anyone still awake in this building, he’s giving away his position, but he’s got a window behind him and a gun in his hand, and rescue _will_  arrive, so he’s not overly worried. “Superman! Help me!"

 

There’s the muffled sound of heels in carpet, and Stiles’ gaze narrows at the edge of the bullpen, tightening his hand on the gun - lowered for now, but with his finger coming off the slide and down to curl against the trigger, safety off - and waiting for the woman to come at him.

 

 

“Freeze!"

 

 

It’s Good Cop, and she’s pointing a gun at him. 

 

 

Far above, there’s the sound of something heavy smashing through concrete. Something indestructible.

 

Something like a Man of Steel.

 

Stiles smiles. It’s not a nice smile.

 

  
_“My boyfriend’s back,”_ he sings, _"and you’re gonna get in trouble_."

 

*

 

Stiles hides a smirk all through the dressing down of Kara’s DEO, perched on the edge of a conference room table, cleaning himself up with a first aid kit (hastily fetched after Superman checked him over with worried x-ray eyes and gentle touches and many inquiries about his health). He had tears in his eyes when he explained to Superman how he was going to _surprise_  him, how he’d been tossed into a wall and _handcuffed_  and questioned and _they took all this things and his blood, Superman!_  The corners of Clark’s mouth had twitched, and the look in his eye said he knew just how much Stiles was putting it on, but he’d looked appropriately stern when he turned to yell at the man in charge.

 

Superman stands tall and bellows about invasion of privacy and inhumane treatment and illegal detainment, threatens the jackbooted thugs and those who think kryptonite necessary (because the only reason to use it would be to keep Clark and Kara _out_ , or _in)_ , and Stiles watches the horrified look on Kara’s face, newly confronted with the fact that her do-gooder organisation is maybe a little bit evil after all. Stiles looks a bloody mess, broken nose giving him two black eyes and streaks of red all down his front, bruises on his wrists and a bump on his head, looks small and pathetic huddled on the edge of the table, wincing as he scrapes blood off his face.

 

It’s possible he may be milking it. Just a bit.

 

Superman’s rant winds down into a patented look of disapproval, and sweeps Stiles up in his arms, punches a hole through the nearest window with laser vision and out they go.

 

 

Stiles hums the Angels all the way back to Metropolis, all wrapped up in cape fabric and flying Superman air. 

 

*

 

Clark sets him down on the edge of their bed, kneels before him, the strongest man on the planet, looking up at him, eyes dark with devotion. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, resting his forehead on Stiles’ thigh.

 

Stiles runs his fingers through dark hair. “It’s not your fault,” he says. “And I had it under control. I just though you’d like the chance to make a grand entrance, lay down the law a bit."

 

“I would burn the world down for you,” Clark says, like a promise, voice low and serious, and Stiles shivers.

 

“I know,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song by the Angels, _My Boyfriend's Back_


End file.
